Caspian's POV
It had been days since the bowl showed him that version of himself. Older. Sharper. Eyes like storms. He hadn't seen the vision again, but he hadn't stopped thinking about it either. Not when the lights in the hallway flickered when he got mad. Not when he walked past a mirror and caught a reflection that didn't match. Not when his grandma started calling him by his middle name during spells like she was trying not to draw attention to him. Now it was Friday. Late. His hoodie smelled like ash and rosemary, and the spell book on his desk had flipped itself open again. He stared at it from across the room.
"No," he muttered, pointing at it like it was a dog. "We talked about this. Boundaries."
The book didn't care. Pages rustled. A sigil glowed faintly along the spine. Caspian dropped into his desk chair with a sigh and let the magic wash over him.
"You're not just a kid anymore," his grandma had said earlier that week. "You're a vessel now. The blood remembers things you haven't even dreamed about."
He wanted to laugh. Or scream. Or maybe both. But instead he opened his journal half spellbook, half vent log and scribbled in the latest entry:
> I saw someone watching me today. A kid at school. Dark jacket, weird eyes. Looked like he knew me before I knew me. Probably nothing. But Grandma's wards flared when I walked in after. Just saying… it's getting harder to ignore the static. > Also: might be losing it.
A creak broke the silence. He froze. Someone or something was on the roof. Again. Third time this week. He stood slowly, heart thudding. Reached for the crystal knife under his bed. If it was just the wind again, fine. But if it wasn't?
He was ready. Because whatever this new life was whatever his blood had started unlocking Caspian wasn't running anymore. Not from magic. Not from monsters. And definitely not from himself.